On one side of the room in which we were conversing, stood a picture apart from all the others, which soon engrossed my entire attention. A young man was represented reclining on a couch, and wrapped in a robe falling in loose folds about his person. His countenance bore the traces of suffering, but his dark eyes were filled with the light of love, and hope, as they looked up into the face of a young female bending mournfully at his side. On the head of this female the artist had lavished all the _love_ of genius. With the sunny hair parted on the fair forehead, and the rich braids simply confined by a silver arrow—the dark eyes from which the tears seemed about to fall—the half-parted lips quivering as if from intense devotion—oh, it was transcendently lovely! The rest of the figure was in outline, but as vividly portrayed as some of those wonderful illustrations by Flaxman, in which a single line reveals a story.
“How is this,” said I, after gazing long and earnestly upon it, “how is this?—why is the picture unfinished. And who was the painter?”
“The tale,” replied my friend, “is a sad one; and if you are tired of looking at pictures and medals, I will relate it to you.”
“Not tired, yet I should like to hear the story to which this picture imparts an unusual interest.”
“You remember Paul Talbot, who left here some years ago to pursue the study of his art abroad.”
“I do, but that young man—sick—almost dying—I thought the face a familiar one; but can that be Paul?”
“Alas! yes—he is dead!” and my friend dashed away a tear as he spoke.
“Dead!” repeated I. “Paul Talbot dead! when did he die?”
“Not long before my return. Poor fellow! he endured much, and his career was an exemplification of what a man of untiring energy can accomplish under the most adverse circumstances.
“Soon after the birth of Paul, his father died, leaving little, save a mother’s love and a stainless reputation to his infant son.
“Mr. Talbot was a man of refined taste, and had collected round him objects of which an amateur might be justly proud—and thus from childhood had been fostered Paul’s love for the beautiful.
“Well educated and accomplished, Mrs. Talbot undertook the tuition of her child, and by giving lessons in drawing, painting miniatures on ivory, and small portraits in oil, kept herself and her boy above the pressure of want. Carefully she instilled into his tender mind those lofty principles of rectitude, of uncompromising integrity, and that child-like trust in the goodness of an overruling Providence, which sustained him through all the trials of after years.